The Regular

The walk across campus would have been pleasant under other circumstances.

It was a beautiful night—clear sky, half-moon, just enough chill in the air to make everything feel crisp and alive. The kind of night where you'd normally have your hands in your pockets, maybe earbuds in, thinking about nothing in particular.

Instead, you were naked, arm-in-arm with a girl you'd met twenty minutes ago, walking toward a café where you'd have to ask a stranger for her phone number while your dick was just... out there

Great. Fine. Totally normal Friday night.

"You're making a face." Megan observed.

"I'm thinking about how I'm going to explain this to my future therapist."

She laughed—bright and genuine—and squeezed your arm. "You're funny. I like that. The funny ones do better."

"Better at what, exactly?"

"Surviving." She said it cheerfully, which somehow made it worse.

You walked in silence for a moment, passing under the amber glow of streetlights. Every time you moved from shadow to light, you became acutely aware of just how visible you were. How much there was to see.

At least the café would be staffed by someone random. Some bored upperclassman working the graveyard shift for beer money. You'd walk in, endure their shock, get a number scrawled on your arm or something, and move on.

Because she wouldn't be there.

She was a morning person. Always there at 8:07 when you stumbled in for your daily black coffee. Brown hair that fell in her face when she leaned over the register. Oversized sweaters that made her look soft and touchable. A voice so gentle it made your chest ache.

You'd been going to that café every single day for three months. Same order. Same time. Same girl.

And in three months, you'd learned exactly three things about her: she had a small mole below her left ear, she always smelled faintly like vanilla, and she made you completely forget how words worked.

You'd never asked her name. Never asked for her number. Never done anything except mumble "thank you" and overtip and spend the rest of the day replaying the forty-five seconds of interaction like a pathetic little movie in your head.

But she worked mornings. She was the reason you dragged yourself out of bed at an ungodly hour instead of rolling into the campus Starbucks at noon like a normal person.

She wouldn't be there tonight.

You were safe.

---

You rounded the corner, and the café came into view.

Warm light spilled through the windows onto the sidewalk. Through the glass, you could see the counter, the menu board, the figure standing behind the register—

Brown hair.

Oversized sweater.

Your heart stopped.

No. No, no, no. She worked mornings. You had literally restructured your entire sleep schedule around her shift. Why was she—

"Oh good," Megan said brightly. "She's here."

You turned to her so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash. "You—you knew—"

"I did my research." Megan's smile was the most innocent thing you'd ever seen, and also somehow the most evil. "Found out about your little coffee shop crush. Adorable, by the way. Very rom-com. I tracked down her schedule, got a sister to ask her to swap shifts tonight."

Your blood ran cold. "She knows? She knows I'm going to—"

"Relax." Megan patted your arm soothingly. "They made up an excuse. Something about a study group conflict. She has absolutely no idea what's about to walk through that door."

You stared at her.

"You're a monster."

"I'm thorough." She tilted her head toward the café, eyes sparkling. "Now go get her number, Romeo. Your Juliet awaits."

"In that story, everyone dies."

"Details." She gave you a gentle push toward the door. "Clock's ticking."

---

You stood outside for a long moment, frozen on the sidewalk like a naked statue of pure cowardice.

Through the glass, you could see her. Bent over a textbook, pen tapping absently against the counter, hair falling across her face. The café was completely empty—no customers, no other staff, just her and whatever she was studying.

Just her.

And in about thirty seconds, just her and your entire naked body.

Your hand was shaking when you reached for the door handle. You could feel your pulse in your throat, your temples, your—

No. Don't think about that.

The door chimed as you pushed it open.

She didn't look up immediately. Still focused on her textbook, still tapping that pen.

"Welcome to—"

She looked up.

Her voice died.

The pen slipped from her fingers and clattered against the counter, rolling off the edge and hitting the floor with a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the sudden silence.

You watched her face cycle through expressions like a flipbook: confusion (why is there a naked man), squinting recognition (wait, is that—), dawning horror (that's HIM), complete system failure (he's NAKED), and then—

Something else. Something that made her eyes go wide and her lips part slightly and her gaze drop down your body before she could stop herself.

"Oh my god," she breathed.

"Hi," you said. Your voice cracked on the single syllable. Very smooth. Very suave.

She was still staring. Trying not to stare. Failing spectacularly. Her eyes kept darting down and then snapping back up to your face like she was playing some kind of humiliating ping-pong with herself.

"You're—" She gestured vaguely at all of you. "You're not wearing—"

"Clothes? No. I noticed that too, actually."

"Like, anything."

"Nothing at all, yeah. It's a bold fashion choice. Very avant-garde."

She let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze. "Is this—" She pressed a hand to her chest like she was checking if her heart was still working. "Is this an Alpha Weekend thing?"

The relief that flooded through you was almost enough to make you forget you were standing there with everything on display. Almost.

"Yeah. Yes. Exactly. I'm a pledge, there's this scavenger hunt situation, it's a whole—" You made a vague gesture that encompassed your nudity, the café, and the general disaster of your life. "Thing."

"I thought it would be, like... streaking. A quick flash." She was still staring. She was so clearly trying not to stare, and she was failing so completely, and you were definitely starting to react to the attention in ways that were about to become very obvious. "This is... this is hardcore."

"Turns out the legends undersell it."

"Clearly." Her voice was slightly strangled.

Her eyes dropped again. Traveled. Lingered somewhere around your midsection. You felt yourself twitch under her gaze, blood rushing south despite every mental command to the contrary.

She noticed.

Her cheeks went from pink to crimson.

Then she seemed to collect herself. Straightened up. Smiled—small and shy but real.

"Hi, John," she said. "I'm Lily."

You blinked. "You... you know my name?"

"Of course I do. You give it for every order." She tilted her head, a hint of mischief creeping into her expression. "I don't write names with a little heart for just anybody."

Your brain short-circuited.

The hearts. The little hearts she drew next to your name on the cup. You'd always assumed that was just—that she did that for—

"I thought you did that for everyone," you said. "You know, to encourage tipping."

"What, you think I'm some kind of heart slut? Besides, I don't need to encourage you," she said, a wicked little smile forming. "You already over-tip every morning." She glanced down at your erection, then back up with raised eyebrows. "And clearly, you're ready to give me even more than usual tonight."

She laughed—a real laugh this time, bright and surprised—and some of the tension between you cracked. Not disappeared, but shifted. Became something warmer.

"Okay," she said. "Okay, so. Scavenger hunt. You need something from me?"

You glanced back at Megan, who was leaning against the wall by the door, arms crossed, watching with barely contained glee. She made a little "go on" gesture with her hand but stayed silent.

Right. He had to do this himself.

You turned back to Lily. Swallowed hard.

"I need your phone number," you said. "And you have to write it on me."

Her eyebrows rose. "Write it... where?"

"Wherever you want," Megan chimed in from behind you. "Dealer's choice."

---

Lily stepped out from behind the counter.

She was shorter than you'd realized—the register had always hidden her height—and standing this close, you could see the small mole below her left ear that you'd noticed a hundred times before. Could smell the vanilla. Could see the way her pulse was jumping in her throat.

She stopped about a foot away from you, Sharpie in hand—Megan had produced it from her bag at some point—and looked up at your face. Then down. Then up again.

"This is insane," she murmured. "You know that, right?"

"Very aware."

"Okay." She took a breath, more to steady herself than anything. "Okay. I can do this."

She uncapped the Sharpie.

She reached out.

Her hand was trembling slightly as she pressed the marker tip to your lower stomach—low, dangerously low, just an inch or two above where things got complicated. Her free hand came up to brace against your hip, steadying herself, and the contact sent electricity shooting through your entire body.

You were fully hard now. Completely, unmistakably erect, your cock curving up toward your stomach like it was trying to meet her halfway. There was no hiding it, no pretending, no way she couldn't notice when her knuckles brushed against the base of your shaft as she wrote.

She noticed.

Her hand stuttered. Her breath caught.

But she kept writing. Slow, careful numbers, her touch feather-light against your skin, each digit a small eternity of contact that made your cock throb.

When she finished, she stepped back and surveyed her work. Ten digits, neat and precise, written on your lower stomach in black Sharpie.

"There," she said, a little breathless. "Now you have my number." A pause. That small, private smile again. "Finally."

The word hung in the air.

"You should actually call it," she added. "Or I'm going to start spitting in your coffee."

"Don't threaten me with a good time."

Her laugh burst out of her, surprised and delighted. "Oh my god. You're—" She shook her head, grinning. "Okay. You're definitely calling me. That's decided."

Megan materialized beside you, practically vibrating with satisfaction. "Perfect. Now—" She pulled a card from her bag and handed it to Lily. "Your turn. Read his next dare."

Lily took the card. Read it silently. Her eyebrows rose.

"Out loud," Megan prompted.

"Get a signature from Professor Helena Vance in the Humanities building."

She looked at you. You shrugged helplessly.

"Here's the fun part," Megan continued. "You get to add a complication. Something to make his next task more interesting. A little personal touch. Whatever you want."

Lily looked at the Sharpie in her hand.

Then at you.

Then at your cock, still standing at rigid attention, pointing right at her like it had opinions about this situation.

Something shifted in her expression. The shyness was still there, but underneath it—a spark. A glint of mischief. A hint of something wicked waking up.

"Signature from a professor," she mused. "You know what professors do?" She stepped closer, Sharpie raised. "They grade things."

Before you could respond, she pressed the marker to your skin—directly above your cock this time, so close that the tip nearly brushed your shaft.

GRADE ME!

And beneath it, an arrow pointing straight down at your throbbing erection.

You felt yourself pulse at the contact. Twitch. A bead of precum welled at your tip, glistening in the café light.

Lily noticed that too.

Her smile grew.

"There," she said softly, capping the Sharpie. "Now she has something to evaluate."

She stepped back, looking enormously pleased with herself.

Megan looped her arm through yours again, already pulling you toward the door.

"Humanities building is a fifteen-minute walk," she announced. "Let's not keep the professor waiting."

You glanced back as you left.

Lily was watching you go, leaning against the counter, her phone already in her hand. The number on your stomach seemed to tingle.

The door chimed.

The cool night air hit your overheated skin.

And you walked out into the darkness, hard as a rock, with "GRADE ME!" written above your cock in a girl's handwriting, heading toward a professor's office with absolutely no idea how you were going to survive the next few hours.